Losing and Leaving

by NightSpear

Dean thought a few times that he’d lose his brother because of a mistake. When it actually happened, it was Sam’s own choice. A sequence of pre-series firsts for the brothers.

Title: Losing and Leaving

Rating: PG-13 (some harsh language)

Disclaimer: Nothing you recognize is mine. I gain nothing of materialistic value from this.

Pairings: Gen.

Summary: Dean thought a few times that he'd lose his brother because of a mistake. When it actually happened, it was Sam's own choice. A sequence of pre-series firsts for the brothers.

XXXXXXXXXX

The first time their dad let Sam go on a hunt was the first time Sam was in the emergency room, and Dean thought his brother was going to die.

It wasn't all that serious, actually. But it had looked pretty damn serious when eleven year-old Sam was unconscious with blood getting everywhere despite the pressure of Dean's hand on the split in his scalp. The talking-to Dean got for that was pretty humiliating, since it turned out that the blood dripping onto Sam's face was actually coming from Dean's hand, which he'd clamped over the scalp wound.

The point was, Dean had only had one job during that hunt: watch out for Sammy. He wasn't even supposed to be going after the damn spirit. It was an easy job, and they all knew it, and Sam was there to learn what it looked like and help with salting and burning the bones. It wasn't even a two-person job; three Winchesters were definitely overkill. Except that there had been a spirit haunting the grave next to the one they were digging up—come on, who the hell haunted their own freaking grave?—and the stupid ghost must have been nearsighted or something and thought they were digging up its bones. Either that or Sam was nearsighted, because he hadn't even noticed the spirit until it walked through him. And then Sam had fallen into the grave, Dad had yelled, and Dean had been tripped by a malevolent, stationary rock and cut his hand on the shovel Sam had dropped.

Seriously, was shit like that even possible?

Except it was possible, because it had happened, and...well. Blood, unconscious little brother, emergency room. Jesus.

And that wasn't even the biggest problem. Dean was standing next to Sam, which got pretty boring once he realized Sam was actually just sleeping now, when he heard Dad speaking as he handed an ID and completed forms to the receptionist.

"Don't move, Sammy, I'll be right back," Dean said hurriedly to his sleeping brother, then walked to his father's side.

"Hey, Dad—"

"Just a second."

"Remember that thing at school couple of mouths back when Sam got into that fight?" he pressed on casually, knowing his dad would interpret Sam got into a fight as I need to talk to you. His dad's eyes narrowed slightly but he pulled back the forms. "Doc will want to know," he continued lying. "Why don't I just write it in?"

"Sure, Dean," his dad said with a forced smile for the receptionist.

Sighing, Dean took the forms and the pen and walked a short distance away from the desk, his father looming tensely over his shoulder. He pretended to scribble something in while saying, "You gave her the wrong ID, Dad."

"That's the one I've been using."

"Yeah, but you gave me the other one when I enrolled Sam and me into the school around here." They enrolled under their real names, always, unless there was a good reason not to. Education was still important—or, at least, it was to Sam—but bigger payments were always on someone else's card.

But his dad was staring uncomprehendingly, and with not a little annoyance, at him now. "It doesn't matter what name they get. We've got insurance on this one."

"Sam's teachers will want a doctor's note for medical absence, and it's gotta be in the right name."

"It's just school, Dean. And he's in fifth grade—no one will care."

Dean licked his lips nervously. "Sam will care."

"Son, what Sam cares about could... Look, there are more important things to worry about now." He looked pointedly at Sam's still form. Sammy's hurt, the look said, and you're worrying about school and absentee notes?

With a second more of hesitation, Dean dropped his eyes and said, "Yessir."

John sighed tiredly. "If it ends up being a problem, I'll write the note myself."

"Yessir."

It took a few hours before a doctor came to tell them it was a minor concussion. "But concussions are nothing to fool around with," the doctor cautioned them. "When he gets home, make sure that..." Dean zoned out somewhere around there—concussions weren't anything new to them. Not even to Sam before he started hunting, clumsy kid that he was.

Sam woke up on the car ride back with a headache, but nothing more. For once, he wasn't bitching about anything, although Dean wasn't sure whether that was the headache or their dad's glower. He did have to stay home from the school the next day, however. Dean ended up forging the doctor's note—he'd seen real ones enough times to know what to put in it, anyway—and brought it to the elementary school before walking the three blocks to his own class.

XXXXXXXXXX

The first time Dean got drunk—seriously drunk, not just buzzed or tipsy, but really smashed—he was sixteen, Dad wasn't home, and Sam yelled at him after avoiding being kidnapped or worse.

To be fair, maybe he was imagining the kidnapping part.

He suspected Sam had actually dragged him in from the parking lot where he'd decided to crash for the night, but that part was kind of hazy. What he did remember was his little brother's voice drilling holes into his brain when the hangover hammered maliciously at his head the next morning. It was a little funny, because Sam's voice had just broken and it cracked every so often, but, you know, it wasn't really that funny, because holy crap, his fucking head...

"You're lucky Dad's away on a hunt," Sam rebuked hours later, when Dean felt a little more alive and his brother was more amused than pissed off. "He'd be kicking your ass if he knew you were out getting shitfaced."

"Watch your language," Dean snapped without thinking.

Sam snickered. "You're kidding me, right? You're telling me to watch my language?"

It was too early to think of a good response to that—yes, eleven-thirty in the morning totally counted as early on a weekend—so he grumbled, "Bitch," which just made the little shit laugh harder. "I'm gonna kill you," he informed his brother.

"Yeah, whatever. Drink your coffee."

Dean took a sip of his coffee.

"Seriously, man, you'd better not do this again when Dad is here."

A traitorous part of him remembered dragging his dad to a motel after too many close encounters with a shot glass, so why shouldn't his dad be the one to drag Dean in after his first time? The smarter part of him was really freaking glad his dad hadn't been there, because Sam was right—there would've been Hell to pay if he'd been caught.

"You still alive, Dean?"

"No," Dean groaned, laying his head on the table. "M'going to sleep."

"Dude, it's like noon."

"Do I look like I give a crap?"

"You look like a troll that got beaten with the ugly stick."

"Fuck you, too."

"Watch your language. I'll tell," Sam teased, a grin in his voice. "Dad'll be pissed."

"Well, Dad's not here." He wasn't sure why there was a perverse piece of his mind that kinda wished their had heard. It was just plain wrong to have a twelve-year-old kid brother scolding about language, that was all. Not that it would be better to have his dad to yell at him.

"Well, I was thinking—"

"Jesus Christ. I'm tired, Sammy."

There was a short pause. "Yeah, whatever," Sam repeated, adding, "Oh yeah, your friend, Brendan something? His dad came around asking for you."

"What are you talking about?"

"You know someone named Brendan from school?"

That made him lift his head. "No, I don't."

Sam looked surprised. "Uh, well, this guy was at the door and wanted to know where you were. Said you were at his son's house the other day and his son left something in your bag, so he would just come in and pick it up..." He trailed off. "What?"

"Did you let him in?" Dean demanded, sitting straight now and struck anew by the fact that he'd left his not-yet-teenaged little brother alone last night, in a cheap motel room surrounded by who the hell knew what kind of people.

Sam's expression twisted to indignation. "No. I told him you'd bring it back yourself. And I can take care of myself, jerk."

"Where's the shotgun?"

"Geez, Dean, he probably just made an honest mistake. You're so paranoid sometimes."

And you're too trusting. "Where was the gun, Sam?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "Next to the door, right by my hand. How stupid do I look?"

Swallowing, Dean made himself say, "You really don't want me to answer that."

And even though he probably was just paranoid, he gave up on his nap. That night, he double-checked the locks on the door and slipped a knife under his pillow before falling asleep.

XXXXXXXXXX

The first time Sam went to school with a sling and a bruise on his face, they were in Minnesota, and they took him away.

Well, not really. But it sure had felt like it at the time, and, honestly, it had been a close thing.

Child Protective Services had been something they'd grown up fearing more than demons and spirits. Demons they could exorcise, and spirits they could send off with a good cremation...but social workers? Man. They were like leeches, and Sam complained whenever he suggested shooting them. In any case, the Winchesters knew how important it was to avoid being noticed that way, and they'd perfected their smiley faces and casual laughs of no way, are you kidding me, Dad wouldn't hurt a fly. Or, anyway, Sam had mastered the face, and Dean took care of the smooth-talking, but it had worked the few times they'd needed it.

But Dean had never expected this.

He'd never considered the fact that, while Sam still looked like a runt who everyone wanted to cuddle, Dean couldn't pull that off anymore, not with his best acting efforts. With their dad gone, Sam was living alone with a tall, muscular seventeen-year-old older brother who kept notoriously close tabs on him. And now he had a broken arm and visible bruises, and he was stammering and insisting that he'd just fallen and hurt himself.

Well, Sammy...we're fucked.

What Dean actually said, when he finally found out and ran over from the high school, was, "Fuck you," and it was to the social worker standing in the school nurse's office, because there was no way in Hell she'd just suggested that he would ever lay a finger on Sammy. Beyond her, Sam was shaking with tension and fear, and his wide eyes were silently screaming Help me, Dean. Dean could feel his own muscles quivering, but he didn't fuck around with silence and called, "Sam, let's go...Christ, lady, he's my brother..."

He almost pushed past the small wall of people blocking his path by force, but he hadn't completely lost his mind (yet) and knew that wouldn't be a smart idea.

They told him he wasn't allowed to see his baby brother until they'd 'looked into the matter'—something about a foster home, God, what the hell—and Dean called his dad on the his cell phone.

"The number you dialed is out of service..."

Dean yanked the phone away and gaped at it. What the fuck? He tried again, and again—

"The number you dialed..."

Jesus Christ. Okay. It wouldn't be the first time they'd had to ditch a phone, and there were a few warrants out for John Winchester, so... Okay. Nothing was wrong. Dad would call, eventually, when he got the chance.

Anyway, what could he have said besides Dad, I screwed up and lost Sammy...

God, his dad was going to kill him.

He stared at the phone for a few moments, thinking it was going to ring and it would be Dad, yelling at him and telling him how to fix everything. It didn't ring.

The stupid thing was that Sam's injuries weren't even from hunting this time. It was his stupid little brother deciding to climb the stupid tree, and Dean's stupid idea to sneak up behind him and yell in his ear, and Sam's stupid teacher trying to send him to the nurse and then trying to call Dad, which had made Sam nervous and act all shifty around them. And then, with the added fact that they moved so much and that Sam's medical records were a mix of really extensive and really obviously full of holes, they'd decided that safe was better than sorry. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

It took two days of finding people to yell at and talk to and full-on beg for his brother. And then, with no choice left, his frazzled brain finally thought of calling Jim Murphy, who lived nearby, to say that he'd fucking lost his little brother, okay, and they wouldn't tell him anything about where they'd taken the kid, and Jim, man, you gotta help us out, please, I'm losin' it here...

"Dean, calm down," Jim said, in that voice that always reminded Dean of a shrink.

"Dammit, Jim, how'm I supposed to calm down, I don't know where my brother is, Jesus..."

"Dean!" Dean stopped, reacting instinctively to the sharper voice that reminded him Jim Murphy had been a hunter before he'd been a man of the cloth. "Is your father home?"

"No. He's with Bobby—demonic omens out west."

"Have you called him?"

Dean hesitated, then said, "He's not available."

Jim sighed but assured him, "Don't worry, Dean. We'll fix this. I'll find out where Sam's been placed and contact a lawyer I know."

"Wh—well, what do I do? I'm not gonna sit here doing nothing!"

"I'll come to you. Where are you staying?"

"Outside Duluth. You can...you can do something about this?" Jim Murphy had always had a soft spot for them—for Sam, especially—and he was one of the few hunters Dean knew who had a shining public reputation, and even that was backed by a congregation of people who looked up to him.

"We'll sort it out. Don't do anything until I'm there. I'll ask the attorney to meet us there."

"Don't do anything? Jim!"

"I know the way you are—make sure you're taking care of yourself. I mean it, Dean."

Dean didn't have a clue what Jim and his lawyer friend did or said, but he didn't care, because, on the fourth day after they stole Sam from him, they gave him back. Not without conditions, because they wanted to make sure no one was making a mistake. There was something about the pastor keeping an eye on them, but that was fine, because he was a hunter, and hunters understood how it was.

Thank the goddamn Lord for Jim Murphy.

"Where is he?" Dean asked as soon as the man told him.

"I just spoke with Sam," Jim told him. "His caseworker's talking to him now—"

"Fuck that, I'm going to—"

"Dean, you'll see him in two minutes. You do not need to step out of line right now. Just calm down and sit down before you fall down."

Scrubbing a hand through his short hair, he finally said, "Okay. Jim, I don't know...thank you, Jim, I don't..."

"It's okay, Dean. You and your brother are like my own family." Jim paused with a hand on Dean's shoulder. "I tried calling your father, and I couldn't reach him."

Dean didn't mistake the statement for anything but the question and accusation it was. He rubbed his forehead in frustration and exhaustion, admitting, "I can't reach him, either. But he's not supposed to be back yet, so I figured it probably wasn't anything big."

"Wouldn't he have contacted you?"

He shrugged uncomfortably. "Not necessarily. It probably isn't safe for him to stop and find a phone."

Jim's eyes were narrowed, but all he said was, "If you're alright here, I'm going to leave and see if I can find him and Bobby or at least contact someone who knows." When Dean didn't answer, he pressed, "You're alright here?"

Where's Sammy? he thought. "Yeah," he said. "We're good."

And then, an eternity of minutes later, Sam was sniffling and wrapping his unbroken arm around Dean's waist.

"Ow," he said into Dean's shirt as his broken arm banged into something, and Dean didn't even acknowledge the well-intentioned social worker who was still standing there when he turned to usher his brother out the door and drive him home.

Dean learned later that Sam had tried to help, too, though it probably hadn't helped nearly as much as the pastor's testimony and his legal contacts. The little geek had reasoned with the temporary family he'd been placed with that they couldn't keep him there against his will if he and his brother and father contested it, and that there was a perfectly good explanation for every injury he'd ever gotten. Dean didn't know how true that was or what the law was on this, but apparently the argument hadn't been good enough, so Sam had decided to be stupid again.

"You did what?" Dean asked when they were finally safe in their motel room. If he was practically holding Sam on his lap, it was only because the idiot hadn't taken pain medication for his arm over the last few days and was tired and falling asleep. And that was probably because, "You tried to starve yourself? You think that was gonna convince people you weren't from a dysfunctional home?"

"It was only two days," Sam mumbled sleepily. "Wasn't gonna starve from that."

"And they said you had a bottle of the lady's sleeping pills hidden under your pillow. Sam...? Sam, wake the fuck up! Answer my question."

"I didn't hear a question."

"God, Sammy—"

"Had to get out of there."

A shaky breath crawled out of Dean's lungs and his arms tightened around Sam. "Had to get out of there? That was your solution? You were gonna overdose on—"

"Wasn't trying to kill myself, Dean."

Dean closed his eyes and buried his face in the top of his brother's head. "You actually thought that would've helped? 'Cause that's not real healthy-sounding behavior."

"But they would've had to take me to the hospital, and then—"

"And then what?"

"Would've had more time to figure it out."

"Fuck, Sammy, do you know how many ways that could have gone wrong? Do you know what could've..." He stopped there.

"Pastor Jim said it was mostly because of you."

God, it was, he knew that. "Sam..."

"Or not mostly, but he said you had an impact," Sam clarified.

"Sam, I didn't know you were gonna fall out of the tree—"

Sam squirmed, then craned his neck around to squint at Dean. "The tree?"

"Yeah...that's how you broke your arm, dude. You hit your head and get amnesia, too?" he quipped weakly, thinking, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry...

Sam huffed exasperatedly. "Not that, moron. The part where you fainted in front of—"

"I did not faint," Dean said, indignation snapping back into place.

"Pastor Jim said you didn't sleep at all and then you just passed out, and the caseworker or whoever saw you freaking out and felt bad for you, and then she found out Dad wasn't around, and..."

"Dude, I didn't pass out."

Sam resettled himself and leaned back against Dean's chest with a contented sigh. "Okay."

A few minutes of silence later, Dean thought Sam had fallen asleep when he heard, "Don't tell Dad."

They should really tell him.

"Dean, don't. Dad won't be back for another week."

"Four days," Dean corrected, because he'd been counting down the days until their dad came back and killed him for losing his brother. This was some pretty big shit to hide, with judges and lawyers involved and everything.

"Please, Dean. Dad wouldn't care, anyway."

"Bullshit. He'd care. You know that, Sam."

Sam somehow scrunched himself closer and Dean automatically adjusted his arms to wrap more tightly around his brother. "I just wanna forget about it, Dean."

And Dean wanted to forget about it, too, so he almost said, Okay. In the end, though, there was no hiding it. "Jim will tell him."

"Oh." Sam leaned his head back to rest more snugly against Dean's chest. "So...Pastor Jim's going to find Dad and Bobby?"

"Yeah."

"You think...they're okay?"

"Sure they are. It's probably just—Dude," he said incredulously, "you're not crying, are you?" Sam's head shook from side to side, but he didn't say anything or turn around. Studiously ignoring the trembling he could feel under his arms, he said, "They're fine, Sammy. This isn't the first time he's been out of reach. Jim's just being paranoid."

He was right, as it turned out. Dad came back, ran a hand over Sam's arm in its cast, and tried to lock eyes with Dean as he said, "Come on, pack up. We're moving out tonight." Dean avoided his gaze, but he didn't escape the hand that dropped onto his shoulder when they stepped out the door. He was never sure afterward whether it was a reprimand or something else, and he was too afraid to look up and find out.

XXXXXXXXXXX

The first time Sam got hurt—actually hurt this time, not just conked lightly on the head—they were on foot in the woods, and Dean found out what medications not to use on his brother.

By then, Dean had graduated from high school and didn't have to pretend to care about grades anymore. Sam, at sixteen, was sullen and disobedient and not yet comfortable in his freakishly still-growing body. Still, they'd been taking routine hunts together, just the two of them, for over a year by then, and if they weren't as experienced as older hunters, they made up for it by the way each knew the other's moves before they happened. Not that Dean would ever say it in front of their dad—who would think they were getting overconfident, and already did think that sometimes—but they were getting pretty damned good.

The wendigo, though, was better. They'd thought they could take it, but being out the woods, away from civilization, with the Impala at a motel miles and miles away with their dad...

"No, no, stay with me, Sam," Dean ordered, his fingers skittering over his brother's leg, almost giddily remembering the time when the blood welling between his fingers had been his own. This time, there was no question it was Sam's, and god, there was so much of it...

"Where is it?" Sam gasped, falling back completely to lie flat. "Wendigo? Did you—ah..."

"It's dead." Dean ignored the panting breaths as he pressed hard on the torn flesh of Sam's thigh, lifting the leg at the same time to leave it elevated on a nearby log and hoping he wasn't doing more damage. "Don't move around. It might've hit your artery, so I gotta get the bleeding stopped."

Might have hit the artery, hell. The way the sonuvabitch's claws had raked through, Sam was lucky he still had the leg at all.

Sam's eyes were squeezed shut, but he peeled them open to fix on Dean. "S'it bad?" he whispered. "It looks..."

"It's not that bad," Dean lied, avoiding the searching gaze as he ripped a shirt off. "Just gonna tie it off until we can get to our packs." A choking sound met his ears as he tightened the makeshift tourniquet.

"No, stop..."

"Sam, I have to get the bleeding—"

"No, not that." Sam's hand closed over his forearm. "You?"

Completely lost, Dean stopped and ran his eyes over his brother's supine form. "I what?" He'd run a quick check for other injuries, but had he missed something?

Sam took a shallow breath. "It hit you. Into...the tree."

"Jesus, Sammy." He wiped a hand over his brow in exasperation. "I'm bruised, is all."

"...hmm."

Dean glanced up to see Sam's closed eyelids again. "Hey, hey, don't go sleeping on me!"

Sam moaned but mumbled, "We done yet?"

"Not 'til I say we're done," he answered roughly. "Think you can stand? No, wait, never mind. I'm just gonna go get the kit, and I'll be right back."

"Don't leave!" His eyes were wide open now, pained and scared.

Dammit. "I'm not leaving you, Sammy, but I need to get you patched up, and I'll be faster if I don't have to drag your gimpy ass around. Your pistol's by your right hand, so if anything comes that's not me...you know."

"...Promise?"

"Promise," he said without hesitation, then stood. "Give me, like, five minutes. And keep your damn eyes open!"

Before anyone could call him back, he was sprinting off toward the clearing where they'd camped the night before. There was a frantic moment when he thought his normally sharp sense of direction had failed him, and he'd never get there and get back before his brother bled out in the middle of the woods...

There! He grabbed Sam's pack with the first aid kit, leaving his own—the wendigo had torn it up, and it was only by chance that they'd heard the material ripping before it had been on them. Both of them, caught sleeping on the job, literally.

When he found his way back, he called, "Sam!" and was relieved to see his brother shift a little in response, his breaths coming in gasps and his hands clenched into tight fists.

"Okay," Dean said, willing his hands to stop shaking as he rifled through the bag with emergency first aid supplies. "You're gonna want something for the pain first." They were out of most of the usual, heavy-duty painkillers, and he was pretty sure Tylenol wasn't going to cut it this time. He hesitated, then pulled out a smaller vial.

"Don't want..." Sam said. Dean suspected it was just an automatic, mindless response, because his face was pale and tight, and he didn't resist when Dean pulled his arm closer and pressed a syringe against it. "What is that?"

"A low dose of morphine," Dean told him. "I don't want to give you too much, but it should start to work pretty fast and take the edge off." Sam laughed breathily, finishing in a groan.

"Where'd you...even get that?"

"Jefferson Cole. The man's crazy—got every kind of drug you could want, dude, I swear. Dad traded him for some info." He dragged up a brief smirk.

"You've never given me that before."

"Yeah, well, first time for everything."

Sam only shivered in answer, and Dean shrugged his thin jacket off to drape over him. Sam's gaze wandered toward his leg. "Still bleeding," he observed faintly.

"A little," Dean replied noncommittally. It did look like it had slowed, but he couldn't leave the tourniquet tied too long. Even as he pulled out a water bottle and clean gauze, he said, "Sam, give me your phone. Mine's not getting reception out here."

"Huh?"

Sam's eyes were already going unfocused. Well, that was the last time Dean was going to dope his brother up before asking him anything serious. Not wanting to waste time trying again, he dug his fingers into Sam's pocket to fish out the cell phone there, flinching when the movement elicited a hiss.

Damn. No reception, either. They were too deep into the woods, deeper than people were supposed to go. With no one to report them missing, no one would be looking for them here anytime soon. Sam's leg was a mess—Dean couldn't deal with it here, on his own, especially with infection a real possibility. And they couldn't wait around here, anyway—how screwed up with it be to kill a wendigo, only to be eaten by a bear?

"I'm gonna wash this out, put in a couple of stitches, and bandage it up," he said as he worked, just for something to say. Sam didn't answer, which was probably a blessing. It didn't stop Dean from keeping an eye on his brother's chest to make sure it was moving, but eventually he gave that up, concentrating instead on keeping his own hands steady. It wasn't the first time he'd patched his brother up, but it was the first time he wasn't sure he could handle it. The bleeding had slowed, but the wound still oozed, and Dean found himself wondering distantly whether he was matching up the ragged edges properly. They were in some deep shit, and he knew it.

No. They'd be fine. Just had to get far enough out to use their phones or find a ranger. They'd make it.

"All right, that's it," he announced several minutes later, keeping his voice calm while his mind shrieked. "You still with me, Sam?" He glanced at Sam's white face, then did a double-take. "Sam?"

A sheen of sweat covered Sam's face—from pain, maybe—even as shudders racked his body. His pupils had shrunken to tiny points, the irises unnaturally bright. His eyes darted wildly, unfocused but moving as if searching for something. Dean brushed a hand to Sam's forehead and felt clammy skin beneath his palm.

Sam whispered something, too soft for Dean to make out, and he leaned in closer until he could hear, "...no, no, don't...stay away..."

"Sam!"

"Who're you?" Sam said, looking at him now and speaking louder, his voice laced with terror a way Dean had never heard it before. "What did you...do to him?"

"Who...Sammy, hey, it's me, it's Dean." Sam was struggling weakly to sit up more, and it was all Dean could do to keep him still. "Sam, calm down!"

"No...god, what is that?"

Whirling around to where Sam's eyes had fixed, Dean saw nothing but trees and dirt. "What...?"

Sam was dragging himself away, whimpering in pain and something that sounded like fear. "All those shadows," he breathed, the words starting to slur. "Crawling around...what're they doing?"

"It's the morphine talking," Dean said, only realizing it now himself. He pitched his voice low, soothing, the way he did after one of Sam's nightmares, reaching to Sam's neck to feel the racing pulse beneath his fingers. "Sam, you're seeing things, but there's nothing there, okay, just me. It's just me." He circled a hand firmly around one of each of his brother's wrists. Sam tugged against his grip with a low whine, but stopped soon, his strength going out.

"Dean?" Sam whispered, as if unsure, his eyes squinted.

"Yeah, it's me. You're hallucinating a little, but just...just listen to my voice, okay?"

"The shadows...?"

"Don't look at them," he ordered, then gave Sam a gentle shake until he obeyed. "Hey! Keep your eyes on me. Don't look at the shadows."

"Everything looks funny," Sam murmured. "My leg feels weird...feel like something's crawling all over me..."

"Yeah, I know, but...we can't stick around here. Can you walk if I help you?"

"...Feel sick." The words were punctuated with another violent shudder, and Dean pulled the jacket tighter around him.

He'd never had this problem with morphine, himself—it just made him a little lightheaded and feeling high, but nothing like this. Their dad took it fine, too. It figured that the one time he didn't have anything else for Sam to take, he'd find out Sam reacted more strongly to it than they did.

He let some of his urgency seep into his words when he said, "I'm sorry, Sammy, I am. But can you move?"

In answer, Sam turned his head to the side and retched. Dean started, then moved to turn him more fully, supporting him as his body convulsed again.

When the bout of nausea subsided, Dean eased him back down. "You okay?" he asked, though he knew the answer. Sam kept his eyes squeezed shut and breathed in quick pants through gritted teeth. Finally, he nodded.

"Ngh...My leg's starting to hurt again."

"The morphine's wearing off some," Dean told him, knowing it would be dangerous to try to give more—not particularly wanting to try giving any more. "Come on, Sasquatch. Let's get you out of here. Try not to move your leg more than you have to."

He pulled Sam's arm over his shoulders, for once thankful that they were almost the same height now, and wrapped his own arm around Sam's waist, gripping the belt. "On three," he said. "One, two..."

He cringed at the bitten off cry as Sam let himself to dragged upright, then fought to keep from overbalancing and staggering under his brother's weight.

"Jesus," Sam hissed.

"Hold it there," Dean coached, as if he weren't screaming internally himself. "Lean on me until you catch your breath."

"So weak," Sam said, his free hand coming around to grasp the front of Dean's shirt. "Still kinda dizzy. Everything's spinning."

"You lost a lot of blood, bro," Dean said, thinking that usually Sam would be the one giving this explanation. He liked it a lot better when Sam was the one giving the explanation, not getting it.

"S'making me sick."

"That's partly from the happy drugs."

Sam made a sound halfway between a snort and a groan. "Not that happy."

I'm sorry, Sammy. "Yeah, bro, I know. Here, close your eyes. Just hang onto me. You trust me?"

The hand on his shirt tightened. "Yeah. I trust you."

It was slow going. They made frequent stops, for Dean to rest as much as for Sam, and he'd had to change the dressing on Sam's thigh once when the bandage soaked through. Sam had vomited a few times more, his gaze still unsettled and darting about as if partly dreaming.

"How far are we?" Sam groaned three hours later.

"Almost there," Dean said breathlessly, as if he actually knew. He'd been checking his cell phone every few minutes, hoping for a signal.

It was almost dark when Dean suddenly brought them both to a halt. "Wait, I think...hold on," he panted, easing Sam down to rest against a tree. Sam had stopped saying anything at all an hour ago and simply dropped his head back against the bark.

The reception sucked, but if they could get through...

"911, please state your emergency," a woman's crisp voice greeted him, and he almost cried in relief.

"It's my brother," he said, sinking down to the ground and still breathing hard. "We were hiking, and he's hurt..."

It would take a little time for anyone to reach them, since they were still away from roads and Dean knew basically where they were, but not their exact position. Still...

"Sam, we're getting out of here," he said once he'd hung up. "Just a little longer."

"'M tired, Dean," Sam breathed. His hand inched forward, and Dean stretched his own out automatically to meet it. "God. Hurts."

"I know, but you can rest after the paramedics get here, okay?" he promised. He had a vision of letting his brother fall into a coma or something, and he wasn't going to lose him, not after all this. "Say something."

Sam dragged his eyes open to stare at him.

"Anything," Dean insisted, brushing his brother's damp fringe out of his eyes and noticing a fever starting. "I'm serious. Recite the goddamn times table. Count to a hundred or whatever. Just don't go to sleep yet, you hear me?"

For a minute Dean wasn't sure Sam was actually listening to him or completely understanding, but then Sam's lips quirked up ever so slightly into the start of a smile. "Unus," he started, his voice weak and tight. "Duo. Tres. Quattuor..."

"What a geek," Dean muttered, though he wanted to laugh out loud. After a while, he sat next to Sam and joined in with, "Novem. Decem..."

Sam drifted off around sixty, and when Dean shook him awake, he started again at thirty-three. Dean didn't correct him.

With a few uncharacteristic stumbles through the Latin, restarting occasionally and stumbling backwards when they hit a hundred, Dean's tongue was tripping over quinquaginta quinque when he heard the first shouts.

"Here!" he yelled back, only noticing now how hoarse he sounded. Sam jumped at the sound, and he put a hand on his brother's shoulder, saying, "They're here. We're safe, now."

They'll take care of you, he thought, the way I didn't.

XXXXXXXXXX

The first time Sam ran away, it was because of a fight with Dean at the end of Sam's junior year of high school. It wasn't even a particularly impressive one—something about a test, not a hunt or training or anything.

And he wasn't really running away so much as hiding in the library, which, you know, was so completely Sam that it only took a couple of hours for Dean to find him in the most isolated nook of the building. So there wasn't really any danger of losing him, but the spark of fear whenever Sam wasn't where he was supposed to be had never really left Dean.

"Nice hiding place," he said, walking toward Sam's table.

"I'm not hiding."

"That's not what it looks like from here," he pointed out, although Sam did normally prefer to scrunch himself into chairs in the corner of a room, as if he could make his freakishly tall self more inconspicuous that way, so maybe he really wasn't hiding.

"I have a test coming up." The death grip Sam had on his pen, though, made Dean think that not a whole lot of studying was getting done. "Leave me alone, and let me study."

"Nah," he replied, making himself comfortable at the table. "I'm good here."

Sam slammed his book shut then. "What is wrong with you?"

Dean raised his eyebrows. "What's wrong with me?" Sam pressed his lips together and made to open the book again. Dean clapped a hand over the top of it first, irritation overtaking everything else. "No, Sam, let's talk about this. What's wrong with me? I'm not the one who stormed out the door like a little—"

"You were being a jackass," Sam hissed at him.

Disbelievingly, he scoffed, "Yeah, and you were a model of restraint." When Sam didn't answer, he went on, "Dude, this is stupid. We've fought before, and you get all in a huff for something stupid like this?"

"That's exactly it, Dean!" Sam leaned in toward him, his expression dark with anger. " 'Something stupid like this.' This is important to me, and you and Dad are always talking about it like I'm stupid to even care!"

"What, a test? What are you even studying?" He lifted his hand off the book and turned it around. Sam made a movement as if to stop him, but when Dean raised his eyebrows, his brother leaned back and lifted his chin defiantly. It was still a surprise, though, when he looked down at the cover.

"The SATs? That's what you're studying for?"

"So what?" Sam asked, his tone rebellious. "Why not? You don't think I can do it?"

Dean met the challenging stare. "It's not a question of whether you can pass, Sam, it's a question of what the hell you plan on doing with it." Sometimes he thought he knew everything about his brother, and sometimes... Yeah, he knew how much Sam liked school and academics, but Dean never really got why.

"It's not like I'm wasting research time," Sam said, resentment clinging to his words. "I gave Dad the information he wanted, I quit soccer years ago, I'll get the money for testing fees on my own time... Don't worry, I'm not gonna mess up a hunt. Not for something as stupid as this," he said, bitter mocking in his voice. "That's all that matters to you and Dad, right?"

Guilt competed with annoyance. The latter won out. "Don't turn this into one of your prissy fits," he growled. "You want to do this? Fine. I'll leave you to it." He shoved his chair back from the table, making sure it squeaked loudly across the hardwood floor.

Sam's head jerked up at the motion, and Dean caught something like guilt in there, too, before he bit out, "Good."

Dean snorted and shook his head as he turned to leave, when Sam's voice called hesitantly, "Wait. Don't...don't tell Dad. Please." He paused at the desperation threading through those words. "Please. I need to do this, Dean."

"Why?" he asked.

Sam looked down. "I need to know I can. He wouldn't understand."

Dean didn't understand, either.

Two days later, he looked up the testing fee for the SATs, found some locals to hustle in a nearby bar, and left enough to cover the price in Sam's notebook. Later, he wouldn't be able to decide whether or not that was a mistake.

XXXXXXXXXX

The first time Dean really, truly lost Sam, it was Sam's own choice.

"It's not you," Sam said, when Dean followed him out the door. Sam was panting a little, his breath hitching, and struggling with two duffle bags that contained everything he owned. "Dean, you have to believe me. It's just...I can't do this anymore."

Dean leaned against the doorframe, letting his stance look casual, as if the wood behind him weren't the only thing holding him upright. "You know, I've thought so many times I was gonna lose you."

Sam met his eyes for a brief instant before he turned his face away. "You're not losing me," he said, his voice small.

"No. You're leaving."

It was dark, but Dean didn't need to see the tears to hear them in his brother's voice. "I never wanted to leave you."

Dean's jaw tightened. "But you are."

"Dean..."

"You'll miss your bus," he interrupted, his traitorous fingers pulling a ticket from his pocket. "Here. You left this in the room."

Sam's fingers brushed once against his as he accepted the ticket, and then he was gone.

FIN